


our love gorges

by Fuckboy Phoebus (The_Resurrection_3D)



Series: Crimson Bound AU [3]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, BDSM, Background Poly, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Burnplay, Cigarettes, Comfort Sex, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Control Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deepthroating, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Hair-pulling, In Medias Res, M/M, Makeup Sex, Mentioned Cannibalism, Mild Blood, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Please Kill Me, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Scratching, Suicidal Thoughts, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-08 05:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15236916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrection_3D/pseuds/Fuckboy%20Phoebus
Summary: While Red Leader and his unlucky human friend negotiate over dinner, Paul and Patryck are left to their own devices.Or: The One Where Paul Subs.





	1. The Part Where The Plot Happens

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this is basically an outtake from a much larger project, but hey, people like porn, why not post it. I hammered this out to help get Patryck and Paul's dynamic more clear in my mind, since in the main story it's heavily-filtered through Tom's POV. Now I'm just revising it to procrastinate, lol, but that's taking a lot more energy than I expected. So I split it into parts. 
> 
> **Key terms:**
> 
> Forestborn: basically a heartless dark fairy. It's complicated. 
> 
> Bloodbound: someone who has been cursed (or 'marked') by either a forestborn or a changeling, and thus has gained supernatural abilities. Will turn into a forestborn one day. 
> 
> A forestborn can also mind-control any bloodbound they've personally made if they're close enough to them. And yes, the threads they all wear are magic and are only perceptible by them. 
> 
> Finally, since Paul and Pat view Tom as their son, it's worth noting that Paul and Patryck are both in their 30s-40s while Tom is still in high school. Tord's almost two hundred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: one use of the f-slur, boring plot shit no one but me cares about, liberal arts shaming (I'm an English major don't @ me), and mildly dubious consent. No one's forced or tricked into anything, but Pat does feel obligated, so better safe than sorry, right?

Patryck throws the torn-off license plate into the floorboards and clambers in, shutting the car door for punctuation.

Beside him, Paul has his arms crossed over the steering wheel, staring out into the star-flecked night, his only movements the wrapping of red thread around his fingers and the occasional exhale of smoke. Patryck sinks in his own seat, realizing with a sigh that this is the first time in months his sky hasn’t been choked with warped, rotting trees. They’ve parked the truck up on a secluded hill mostly reserved for illicit rendezvous, but right now the only tension between them is silent. 

“So,” Pat says. “What do you want to do now?”

Paul takes another deep drag of his cigarette, ere he flicks it out the window. The red threads – one for Paul’s ring finger, the other for Pat’s— spill out the window and zigzag-race down the hill, back down towards the city, where the cars and buildings and people are running through them without the slightest clue.

Patryck feels a tugging on his finger.

Paul mutters inaudible, his own thread raised to his lips. His other fingers drum the steering wheel, but instead of actualizing any of Patryck’s worries, he simply slumps forward, forehead thumping against the wheel. “Fuck.”

Patryck returns the tug softly, squeezes Paul’s shoulder. “I know.”

“We left them in a trap.”

Tord and Tom – their leader-lover and their surrogate son. The latter neither is particularly worried about, at least physically. The charms on his person will instantly ignite if either Tord or the changeling Coxinga touches him, and were probably already giving the other bloodbound in the room cluster headaches.

The former, too, would normally be fine; a few bloodbound are nothing for a forestborn to worry about, but with a shapeshifter involved…

“Well,” Patryck says. “He’s aware of the danger. And he has both his masks on. As long as he keeps his temper in check, we shouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Tord had hidden his antlers and the rose in his eye, Patryck reminds himself, used his magic so that whoever looked at him would forget his face the moment they looked away. Now, it was only a matter of controlling—

“ _His_ temper?” Paul asks.

Ah yes, the third player. Coxinga: the Winter Court’s attack dog. Despite being only half-forestborn, he’s fully embraced all of their vices, from reckless driving to cannibalism. Which would be fine – the Red Army is hardly better – if he weren’t also known for flying off the handle at the most minute provocation.

But business is business, for better or worse.

Tonight Coxinga had messaged them only a few minutes after they’d left for the Long Yang Club in London, his usual haunt when he crossed over from the continent, and had not only changed the venue, but _demanded_ Tom come along. 

Now the infamous forestborn-cum-terrorist Red Leader is seated in a diner known to patron the Green King’s bloodbound, and his human friend has caught the attention of a powerful shapeshifter known for his taste in freshly-marked flesh.

Which honestly still wouldn’t be so bad if not for whom Cox answered to, a forestborn almost as old as the Great Forest himself – and a creature whose mere thought sometimes sent their lover someplace deep within himself, for reasons he kept buried deeper.

_(yet he makes you tell him everything)_

_(we’re even_ , Patryck repeats to himself, his mantra, his ground, _we’re even, we’re even)_

“I don’t think Cox wants to fight today,” Patryck says as he rubs his hand across Paul’s shoulder blades. “He only insulted you this time; normally he throws stuff at you when you try to ignore him.” Today the changeling had only challenged Paul to an arm-wrestling contest and then called him a pussy when he declined, which is relatively tame.

Well, he also had to bring up the Divorce to a whole restaurant full of people, but again, pretty tame of him.

And it’s not like they can do anything now, save from turning the car back on and ramming it through the diner’s entrance. Whatever happens happens.

(That’s one of the side effects of living in magic no one really talks about: the fatalism, and all the sullen boredom that comes with it.)

_(Or is it just me?)_

Patryck plants his chin on Paul’s shoulder with a sigh, hand still sweeping across his back like a metronome.

 “I s’pose so,” Paul mutters. Patryck can still feel Paul’s muscles bunched up beneath his skin, hear his heartbeat pounding in anger, blood only beginning to simmer down from its earlier boil.

Well, you would be angry too, if someone loudly announced that your wife left you.

In public.

In front of your son.

But by now Patryck is used to Paul’s mood swings, the kind like this that keep him up at night, staring at the other two men in his bed while they pretend to sleep. He’ll feel Paul’s thumb swiping across the back of his hand or pushing a curl of hair out of his face, open his eyes to Paul watching him through the cage of thorns and roses that grow from the man nestled against his chest

 (at least until Tord needs to roll over and vomit into their bedside trash can, as he’s done so often over the past few months for reasons that remain but suspicions caught in Pat’s throat).

Then all three of them will get up, Paul trimming the vines away with the clippers in the nightstand as Pat set some tea on the kitchenette stove, TV white noise as they snuggle up under the covers again, six limbs all tangled together. Sometimes they’ll eventually fall back off to sleep: sometimes they’ll fumble about in the dark, soft sighs and whispered nothings until they’re all breathless and spent and hardly able to keep their eyes open.

Right now, though, all Patryck has is himself.

So he plants a kiss on Paul’s neck, gives his shoulders another squeeze. He almost says _It’s going to be alright,_ but that’s not what this is about, so instead he lands another kiss, now on the shell of Paul’s ear.

Words are cheap; that they both know very well.

Paul lets Patryck loll him back into his chair, heavy hands settling on the smaller man’s hips as Pat climbs into his lap. Tilt his head to allow Patryck’s lips to ghost down, sigh as his tongue swirls over that spot on the side of his throat – which quickly turns to a moan, to Paul hugging Pat tight. And yet still to Patryck ripping his arm out of Paul’s hold and pressing his head into the chair, worrying the spot until Paul is squirming.

 _“Fuck,”_ a reverent whisper as Patryck moves to Paul’s Adam’s apple, harsh circles and brief, nibbling kisses. _“Oh, fuck, Patryck –”_

Finally Paul grabs a handful of dark hair and wrenches Patryck away, staring at his lips for only a moment ere he’s shoving his tongue between them. Patryck can already feel Paul melting underneath him, his shoulders slacking as Patryck’s arms snake around his neck, his muffled voice quivering as teeth sink into his bottom lip.

Ah yes, Paul, one of their best pilots. Paul, one of their strongest fighters, in the ring and off.

Paul, the biggest masochist he knows, besides himself.

Patryck forces himself away with a loud, wet pop. Runs his thumb along the seam of Paul’s mouth, trying to keep his own breathing even.

Not that it matters. Paul can hear Pat’s heart hammering, just as clearly as Patryck can hear his.

Straddling Paul in a dark, cramped space, mouth already burning from his whiskers – Patryck wonders if he’s the only one feeling a little bit nostalgic.

“Getting excited?” He asks, his voice low. Paul gives a little yelp as Patryck reaches down and makes the seat fall back, far as it can go, but once the initial surprise is gone he gives a small, slightly-nervous smile.

Paul swallows thickly. “Yes, Sir.”

Which earns a smile, knuckles running down the side of his face. It’s always been too satisfying to force such a big, burly man onto his knees, for more than just the obvious reason. Tord has always preferred to dish out the physical punishments, but…

Patryck’s hand runs over the scar over Paul’s right eye, the one he’d gotten as he tried to fight off his forestborn. As he was held down and marked on the base of his throat, just like Patryck several years prior, their crimson stars too bright for the darkness that surrounds them.

Paul suddenly grabs Patryck’s hand. “You don’t have to do this.”

(I wish people would stop lying to me)

Patryck readjusts in Paul’s lap, noting the way the muscles in his neck flex. “But I want to.”

(and I wish you’d stop acting like _you’re_ the one who can’t leave)

So to prove the point, he yanks Paul up by the front of his sweater, reaching underneath and dragging his nails down Paul’s back, over and over, until he feels drops of blood on his fingertips and Paul’s crying into the crock of his neck. “And I don’t remember saying you could talk back to me,” he whispers into Paul’s ear.

Lightly running his hand over the scratches, feeling the occasional wetness – but Paul’s a bloodbound, so a lot of the swelling is already far less than a human’s would be, and within a few minutes these superficial cuts will be gone.

“Yes, Sir,” Paul says breathlessly.

“And?” Another deep scratch; Paul arches, biting back his noises.

He slumps forward into Patryck’s embrace as Pat retracts his hand, rubbing his fingers together. He can’t see the blood beyond the black coating his skin, but the scent hits him all the same. They used to think a bloodbound’s humors went into flux as soon as they were marked, and despite the obsolescence of that theory, Patryck can certainly smell the difference: while human blood smells of copper, a bloodbound's is…more vivid, like freshly-turned soil. An antecedent to forestborn blood, which stills in their veins and smells of when the corpse buried beneath the soil starts to decay.

The string dangling from Patryck’s hand has gotten into the blood. He wonders if Tord can sense that, but he doesn’t have to wonder long, because he feels a harder tug within seconds. _Are you okay?_

Patryck plucks at it twice. _We’re fine._

Paul looses another shaky breath, feeling his sweater stick to his skin even as the wounds stitch themselves closed. He’s already half-erect, can see Patryck’s own tenting the front of his jeans from his place astride Paul’s thighs. His grip on Pat’s hips flex, dying to pull the man atop him closer, trying to be obedient.

Patryck’s domination has always been lazy, borderline obligatory – giving orders and then going about his business as though Paul isn’t there, downplaying the quality of whatever he does deign to acknowledge. It’s always left Paul aching, both with arousal and with guilt.

But now they’re back in waters they haven’t charted in years, and it’s wrapping Paul’s body in a pleasant, desperate heat. “Thank you, Sir.”

Patryck drops another hard kiss on Paul’s lips. “Now what does my pet want?”

An instinctual answer _: “You.”_

You, your full attention, your full consent.

Patryck rolls his hips forward, causing Paul’s breath to hitch as they both lie back down. He almost presses their bodies flush, keeping a hairbreadth of distance as his hand knots in Paul’s hair. “But what do _you_ want to do?” He asks.

 After a moment’s consideration, he adds, “And don’t say you just want to make me happy.”

(Actually, I was going to say “Put my penis inside you.”) “But –”

“Don’t do it.”

Paul thins his lips into a harsh line, nostrils flaring.

“Don’t you dare.”

Paul gives a strangled sound, before he breaks character to pepper Patryck’s cheek with kisses.

“Heyheyhey,” Patryck manages through his laughter. “Fall back, solider.” He yanks Paul’s head back again, returning with his own attack on the thick column of throat before him, ignoring the prickle of unshaven hair along his tongue.

“That’s not fair.” Paul’s voice has a breathy whine as he rips open the buttons of Patryck’s jeans.

 _“Hey,”_ the mirth drops from Patryck’s voice as he tugs Paul’s hair, grabbing hold of Paul’s chin with his other hand and bringing their gazes together. “We go at my pace, understand?”

Paul nods, hot, leaden fear sinking to the pit of his stomach. If he’d done that with Tord, he would have already gotten slapped. The thought makes him shudder. “Yes, Sir. I’m sorry.”

Patryck’s lips curl up in a small smile as he watches Paul’s pupils dilate, the fear and arousal dancing together. Releasing Paul’s hair, Pat reaches down and squeezes the tent in his pants, earning a whimper and the painful dig of fingers into his hips. Patryck releases his grip on Paul’s chin, too, sliding the hand down Paul’s neck, his collarbone, to bunch up his sweater again and jerk him close. 

Paul’s breath hits his –

The phone rings.

They both groan as Patryck fishes the burner phone out from between the seats, holding it up to his ear. “Yes, dear?...nono, I’m fine. We’re both fine…Well, I’d call it providing emotional support but yes, you could say we were about to fuck.” Then Patryck’s nose scrunches up. “I’d honestly rather not.”

‘ _Not what?'_  Paul mouths, but Patryck holds up a finger.

“And we can give you plenty when we all get home…Alright, alright. I’m sure Tom is fine. I know Cox’s old but mentally he’s still very much stuck in his ‘calling people faggots on _Call of Duty’_ phase.” A chuckle. “I mean he wants someone to talk to! And Tom’s charmed; he’ll be fine. Right now you need to focus on making sure no one’s tailing you. Go cut the phone line and the security cameras if you’re really that bored…Alright, alright. I love you…Bye.”

He then drops the phone back onto the floor, as though it were a disgusting thing he was dropping into the trash. “Now, where were we?”

Paul titters.

“What?” Patryck asks. “It’s not mine.”

Paul rolls his eyes and repositions himself, sliding down so Patryck’s again seated directly atop his erection. Patryck gives a little muffled yelp of surprise, but Paul braces his knees against the steering wheel to give him something to lean back against.

So Pat does, settling his own feet up on the armrests, running a hand through his winged hair as the other intertwines with Paul’s– which is again unfair, because it’s pretty hot. Paul grips Patryck’s thigh with his other hand, is tempted to just go ahead and grab the outline of him through his jeans, but assessing the mission’s status takes precedence. “How’s dinner going?” Paul asks.

Patryck sighs. “He says Coxinga kicked him out to talk to Tom privately, but considering the first thing he asked Tom was about death metal –

“Power metal.” Specifically a _Lord of the Rings_ fanfic album Paul has mentioned before, but he's given up getting either of his lovers to take his interests seriously.

A dismissive wave. “Whatever. Point is, Tom’s fine. And then Tord heard how out-of-breath I was and wanted us to film it.”

“You’ve never been against that before,” Paul notes, running his thumb over Patryck’s knuckles. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

 _“Yes,”_ an exasperated sigh. It’s so fucking tiring to get asked that every time. Without thinking, Patryck grabs at Paul’s thread-thick hand, grip tight on his struggling wrist.

“And you gotta stop doing this shit,” Patryck snaps, starting to yank the string free. “You know it freaks him out.”

He only manages a few loops, though, before Paul manages to jerk his arm away and shoves Pat back against the wheel, horn blaring, large hand pinning him by the chest.

“It makes me feel better,” Paul says sternly, expression hard and inscrutable. The pressure against Pat’s chest forces the air out of his lungs, but Paul quickly releases it, using the hand to pluck his string twice. 

Patryck rubs at his sore chest, softening his expression. “I’m sorry.”  (And he can't decide whether or not that's a lie.)

“It’s fine,” Paul says too blandly for Pat to believe it. Still he chances reaching forward and running his knuckles over Paul’s jaw. Paul doesn’t push him away again, but doesn’t relax into the motion, either.

“I want this to be about us,” Pat explains. “We never get to have anything that’s just ours anymore.”

Not even our son – Tom _should be_ all of theirs, really, but Tord…

Nothing’s happened, not yet. Of that Patryck is sure. But when Tom inevitably gets marked, when Tord has him under his full control…

Neither of them know what’s going to happen.

“Well, we could,” Paul quips back, an edge creeping into his voice, “if you would tell me anything.” 

“I tell you what I can,” Patryck lies.

Paul’s eyebrows furrow. “Can, or want to?” he asks.

 _Yes,_ Patryck thinks with another heavy sigh. He readjusts himself, straddling Paul again and making his arms a loose noose around the other pilot’s neck. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Well, I do,” Paul snaps. “Tord’s been puking his guts out every night for the last _week_ and no one will tell me why.”

Patryck bites down his canned response – to brush it off as the stress of planning the invasion, but that excuse isn’t cutting it anymore. Not that that has stopped Tord from using it to shut-down any attempt to engage the subject, however.

“I keep telling you,” Patryck hates the frustration that’s crept into his voice, because he can see Paul’s eyes darken again. “ _I don’t know why_.”

Paul pulls one of Patryck’s hands into his own and huffs, swallowing what he has to say.

“I have theories, but no proof,” Patryck continues. “Contrary to what you may believe, he doesn’t share every single little thought with me.”

Paul’s brown eyes fall, focus instead on the repetitive swipe of his thumb over Patryck’s darker skin. “And you can’t tell me what your theory is.”

“Yes, exactly. I would if I could, but I _physically_ can’t.” And he has tried, but the words claw and thrash in his throat until he swallows them down again. Even that, though, is a only a shadow of how painful defying a magical order can get, when you try and hold out for long enough. 

Think swallowing glass and injecting acid; think a chainsaw ripping _upwards_. 

Paul’s never realized how lucky he is, to have a forestborn who simply marked him and fucked off.

(And then to try to kill Red Leader and live to tell the tale.)

Patryck cups Paul’s face with both hands, bringing their foreheads together. “I really don’t wanna fight right now,” he mutters, his breath hot against Paul’s mouth.

Paul searches Patryck’s face, but says nothing, instead leaning forward into his lips. Patryck sighs into the kiss, arms slithering tight around Paul’s neck, their bodies molding together. He doesn’t know how much time passes – five minutes, thirty? – of simply _them_ , kissing and nibbling and sighing as fireflies outside the glass dance, before Patryck pulls away and ruffles Paul’s hair.

Paul responds by giving Patryck’s ass a firm squeeze.

Patryck titters, batting Paul’s forehead. Before he can fully chastise the other pilot, however, Paul swoops back in for another hard kiss. “Never in my life did I think I’d be so excited to go to _Norway_ , of all places,” he says as he rolls his hips up into Pat’s, eyes sparkling. “But now I can’t wait. You’re gonna look so _stunning_ in all the robes and jewels.” He lunges again, whispering, “ _And even better when we take it all off,_ ” with another peck on Patryck’s mouth, ere falling back and furrowing his eyebrows. “ I don’t know how I feel about the name “Pink King,” though.”

“You know we’ll just be consorts, right?” Patryck asks. And that’s ignoring the fact that marriage hardly means anything to forestborn, especially when their partners could wake up one day with their hearts gone, too, and all attachment with it.

But Paul rolls his eyes and waves the question off. “Not all of us have history degrees, Pat.”

“I only _minored_ in history, Paul. My major was philosophy, remember?”

“And I’ve already told you that _some of us_ don’t know tons of pointless minutia, because we majored in something actually _useful_.”

Man, what he wouldn’t give for Paul to be wrong.

“Oh really?” Patryck asks with a smirk, lifting himself onto his elbows. “What did you major in, grilling? Pretending your nineteen-year-old secretary could ever be interested in you?”

“Okay,” Paul replies, placing his hand over Patryck’s face and pushing him away. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“That’s a funny way to pronounce “honest.” Did they teach you that at—"

 _“Oh-kay,”_ Paul repeats, pushing his lover back until they’re both sitting up again, Patryck uselessly batting at Paul’s arms.

“You really think he’d crown us, too?” Patryck asks, finally pining Paul’s arms to his chest. “Never in a million years.”

“Oh come on, I’m sure we could convince him. Everyone knows we’re all together, anyway.”

“Even if we did, he’d immediately turn around and declare himself High King, so it wouldn’t even matter.”

“It matters to me. Besides, don’t you want the title? The Yellow King has a much better ring to it than Red King’s bitch.”

“I’m already used to Red Leader’s bitch; I’m sure I could get used to that.”

( _Used to kicking people’s teeth in for saying it, you mean)_

(Paul can’t help but smile at the memory, for that was when he was sure he was starting to fall in love.)

Patryck leans over and pops open the car door, eliciting a questioning look from Paul. “Now come on,” He says as he untangles himself and steps out. “Who knows how much time we have left. You have three seconds before I run after you. One, two..."

And Paul is off like a shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, the LOTR fanfic album mentioned is _Nightfall in Middle Earth_ by Blind Guardian.


	2. The Part Where Everyone Takes An L

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I revised this while watching My 600-lb Life. The Assanti Brothers episodes are truly the End of Eva of reality TV. 
> 
> I didn't intend for it to take this direction when I started revising, but I'm really happy with what came out. We're all gonna need to take an L here, because there's no point in splitting it to make getting to the porn easier if you still have to scroll through 2k of plot. But rest assured, I'm taking the biggest L of all. 
> 
> Warnings for: mild body horror, under-negotiated kink. Safe to tag with with dead dove: don't eat now, isn't it?

“You know I can’t blow you if you’re up there,” Patryck says matter-of-factly. He’s tempted to leave Paul up there, to run back and check the burner phone, and the only thing stopping him is how irrationally sure he is his worst fears will be confirmed.

From his perch, Paul gives a small shrug, shifting his bear hug grip around the trunk. “I suppose that’s true.” Again he looks at the ground around Patryck’s doll-small form, asks, “What are the chances I break my leg jumping down?”

Pat takes a moment to consider as he reclines against the tree, sucking air through his teeth. “Fifty percent.” Not that it matters much either way, because a broken leg is roughly a week of bed rest for a bloodbound.

Paul hits the ground with a loud _thud_ but immediately takes off, so the coin must have landed heads-up.

And then they’re running again, laughter stentorian, their sweaters and hair getting caught and ripped and tangled on the trees' skeleton hands. Patryck’s body is a single, deafening pulse, revealing the Forest’s pupil-less eyes with every beat. If he takes his own off Paul’s back, he can see the bonfire reaching towards a distant night sky. So he pushes harder, rapidly closing the distance between them. He’s always been the faster, but Paul zigzags, using the trees to change the direction of his momentum.

Patryck lunges, manages to pin Paul down for only a moment ere the other pilot twists himself free and sprints off into the wood.

Behind them, a three-headed dog raises its head.

Before Pat knows it, he’s back in the clearing, catching a split-second glance of Paul’s boot before it disappears under the trunk.

“You’re not getting away that easily,” Patryck calls as he slows down to a light jog.

“Paul’s not here!” goes a mirth-choked voice under the truck.

Patryck titters.

Around him, the Great Forest leeches away from the world like a film of dirt awash in a stream. But when he collapses against the side of the truck, Patryck goes to wipe the sweat from his brow and feels crystal.

Small yellow flecks, growing out of his flesh. Like scales.

_Fuck._

He rakes his nails down the back of his hands, draws blood, but the crystals come out easily, leaving tiny pits in his skin like he’d been merely popping pimples.

Patryck curses under his breath again, checks his mark in the truck’s side-view mirror. More, slightly-larger crystals poking out of his skin like bristles. He claws them off, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of that perfect crimson star.

“Patryck, you okay?” 

He runs his hand over the mark a few times, just to make sure the smoothness isn’t a trick.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” he answers finally, reaching down and plucking twice on his string. “Are you okay?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Paul’s head peeps out from beside the tire, neck craned.

Thank god the cuts have already closed. Patryck wipes the blood off on his jeans as Paul asks, “Did you cut your hands?”

“Yeah,” Patryck says too quickly, breathless more from the panic than exertion. “Just when we were tussling. It’s nothing.” He shoots a mischievous look. “But I thought Paul wasn’t here?”

“Oh, right.” Paul’s head disappears again. “I’m not here! Different castle, fuck off.”

Patryck laughs. “I don’t remember that being part of the game.”

“Weren’t you still in your dad’s balls, though?” Paul shoots back.

Patryck drops to his knees, groping for a man who easily scoots away, pressing himself against the opposite tire. “I think I was what? Three or four when the first game came out?” He says as he weakly swipes at Paul's jeans. 

Paul draws his legs away as he replies, “I was wrapping up high school, I think, or close to it.” A breathy chuckle. “God, I’m getting old.”

“You’re not even a _fourth_ of Tord’s age,” Pat quips. He strains as far as he can without flopping down onto his stomach, but is rewarded with only a soft _pop_ in his shoulder. “Now get out here; you’re being childish.”

“Actually have a kid, then get back to me.”

Patryck stiffens, studies Paul’s expression, but Paul looks as he did before: smile curling his lips, darkness clouding his eyes. The words hang in the air, drawing back all the tension from earlier to the surface. 

They don’t talk about Amelia.

Which is all Pat needs to confirm Paul wants to be punished, if that weren’t obvious already.

“Alright.” Patryck stands, tugging open the car door. “I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.

_(you’ll go full forestborn if you do)_

He checks the burner phone; no missed calls. Fishes his thick work gloves out of the glove box.

_(it’s too soon)_

The red string leeches through the material, an unbroken leash pooling over his shoes, winding down the hill, unbroken, into eternity.

If it happens, it happens.

But in the meantime, let’s see what I can do.

(you really think turning will make him let you go?)

Patryck tugs on his gloves and cracks his neck.

“Pat, whatever you're doing, don’t hurt yourself,” Paul warns, earning no response.

Patryck can already feel his nerves singing in anticipation, tiny bugs beneath his mark, but he ignores it. In this line of work, you get used to a certain level of fear, to the point it's not even that physically exhausting anymore.

Or maybe Tord's been drugging him. Who knows?

Proper stance, breathe deeply, and –

(the moon blots out)

Paul lets out an excited shout as Pat hefts the car up, up, over his head, flashing a grin despite the obvious strain. “Have you been working out without me?” Paul asks.

Instead of answering, Pat readjusts his grip, shifting all the weight onto one hand as the other darts forwards and grabs Paul’s ankle. The larger man lets out a yelp, nails digging pathetically into the dirt as Patryck drags him out before dropping the truck with a metal cacophony.

Paul wheezes as Pat flops down onto his back, his own breathing haggard.

He goes to answer, and tastes blood.

Paul’s face loses all color as he cranes his head up and watches a rivulet of red bubble out the side of Patryck’s mouth, the sky around them dotted with eyes instead of stars.

“Holy _shit,”_ Paul rolls out from underneath him, already feeling his own arm nearly ripped from its socket as Tord calls to them desperately. “Holy shit, Pat, just --”

Patryck reaches up and grabs the crystal growing from his neck, its jagged edges easily slicing through the leather, and yanks it out.

Air rushes into places it’s not meant to be, but only for a second ere the skin seals again, far, far faster than it should. Self-made tracheotomies shouldn’t feel that quickly, even for a bloodbound.

 _(How would you know, though?_   Patryck thinks vaguely, drowning out Paul’s nonsense words. _You’ve never tried. )_

Patryck feels his throat spasming, but takes just a moment to burn the crystal to memory: a sickly, bile yellow with black eye veins. Already starting to disintegrate as he doubles over and hacks up a thick glob of phlegm and blood.

“Pat _, Pat, Patryck!_ ” Paul’s voice finally cracks through as Pat grows the remaining chunk onto the ground and stomps on it into dust. “Are you alright?”

The moon comes back like a light-bulb being flicked on.

Feel your heartbeat in your ears, _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum._ Remember the first night Tord invited you into his chambers, pulled you to his chest, and smiled as you heard the deafening silence up close for the first time.

Patryck rolls up his sleeves and brushs off the yellow dust now coating his arms. Clears his throat, spits again. “It’s fine. Can you see my mark?

The next tug sends them both stumbling forward a few footsteps; Patryck curses under his breath and plucks his twice, leveling his eyes at Paul. “What? Can you not see my mark?” he asks again, harsher.

“Yes, but--”

“Then I’m fine. I just got a little carried away.”

Another hard tug, albeit softened enough to leave both men standing. Pat plucks again.

“Are you _sure?”_ Paul asks.

Patryck grimaces and sends another reassurance down the string, Tord’s panic practically vibrating through the line. “Yes, I’m sure. I promise. It was just the exertion.”

Paul’s eyes are swirling with uncertainty, but finally, he plucks twice.

The strings seem to breathe a sigh of relief, feeling just a small bit looser.

Because however far along Patryck is in his transformation, at least he won’t be alone. It’s Red Army policy to have a partner selected specifically for the occasion, whether said occasion be instantaneous or stretched over several days. But Tord can feel the turning of his bloodbound in his chest, and Patryck has stopped keeping track of the number of times he’s awoken to the middle of the bed suddenly emptying as Tord throws on some clothes and dashes off into the night, usually headed for the infirmary. 

Off to greet his new brother into the world.

That was what he'd thought Tord had been doing the night Tom first started to creep into their lives. Patryck hadn't been able to sleep either, so he'd waited, patiently reading over neglected reports in his rocking chair. Then Tord had come home with take-out for his favorites, smelling vaguely of humans, ash, snow, and angels' trumpets. 

 _"Oh,"_ was all Patryck had said. Their relationship allowed for meaningless fucks so long as they weren't kept hidden, but Patryck didn't like to ask. "Have fun?" The angels' trumpets meant charms, and normally charms meant woodwife-hunting, which did make Patryck feel left out at the time, much as he understood the desire to be alone. 

Tord had nodded and handed him his food, dropping a kiss on the pilot's hair. "Lots." 

Tord lacked the smell of blood, which Pat had ignored. 

And then a week later, the son of a woodwife figured out how to personally summon Red Leader. Using the same fake name Tord had given him in the pub all those years ago. 

History really is a circle, isn't it? 

That draws Patryck’s lips to a grimace. He’s also half-sure he’s upset that Tord’s panic over his near-transformation isn’t really coming from any unique _care_ , but that’s not fair.

Regardless, it’s suddenly too hot, so Patryck pulls off his sweater, throwing it into the bed of the truck. He checks his mark in the mirror, running over the otherwise-unmarred skin. He breathes another sign, feeling drained, like a cup dumped out and gone to waste.

(But whatever happens, happens, right?)

So when his lover offers comforting hands on his shoulders, he wraps one of his own around Paul’s, and with the other opens the door.

Paul raises his eyebrow as Patryck leans out of his grasp, fishing around until he pulls out a carton of cigarettes and lighter from the floorboards, the first-aid kit from under the seat.

The phone doesn’t ring.

Paul stands there, starting to rub circles in Pat’s back as the other man falls against his chest and takes a deep drag.

Patryck’s brown eyes flash mischievously as he lets his head loll onto Paul’s collarbone, breath a thin stream of gray. His hair disheveled and lightly glistening with sweat, his jeans and red sweater torn and spotted with dirt.

“Get on your knees.” Patryck smiles, crooked and wild. 

“Are you sure?”

“Ask me that one more time and I’m gonna slap you.”

Paul winces. Pat reaches up and runs a hand over his cheek, causing Paul to shudder at the warmth that radiates from his lover’s skin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” he lies again. “I was joking. But it is really frustrating.”

Paul gently pries Patryck’s hand away, kisses the palm. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. I’m just…” A deep sigh. “Worried. But I guess that goes without saying.”

Patryck chuckles softly as Paul lays another kiss in his hand. “I love you. But I also wasn’t kidding. We don’t have a lot of time left.”

A sultry look as Patryck twists around to face Paul, hands reaching for his own zipper. “And this ain’t gonna suck itself.”

It’s stuck. Pat looks down, jerking the zipper harshly. “That went a lot better in my head.”

Paul laughs, muffling it in a desperate kiss. Patryck unabashedly moans as his mouth falls open, wrapping a leg around Paul’s hips and letting the arm holding his cigarette rest outstretched on Paul’s shoulder. He must be throwing Paul a bone tonight; normally it’s well into a scene before either of his partners can pierce Patryck’s veneer of barely-suppressed boredom and disdain. Paul grabs him by the ass and lifts him until the other leg comes up, too, feeling his heart swell as Patryck’s tongue slides up to meet his.

Now he’s the one to pull away. “I thought you mentioned something about blowing _me_ while I was up in that tree," Paul comments as he trails light, playful kisses down Patryck's jaw and neck.

“That was then," Pat replies, barely suppressing a shudder. “This is now.”

Paul gives his ass another squeeze, flattening the other pilot against the car door. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be giving orders, _Sir.”_

Patryck rolls his eyes, grabs Paul by the hair, and jabs his cigarette into his neck. Paul hisses and wrests himself away, hand shooting up to cover the wound. Before he can form a coherent response, however, Patryck regains his balance and takes another drag of his stick.

“I’ve heard it takes a full second of contact to leave a third degree burn.” The edge in his otherwise nonchalant tone makes the bottom fall from Paul’s stomach -- and heat pool in his gut. “Care to test that out, or are you ready to do as you’re told?”

But, of course, Paul is already pretty familiar with how hot the end of a cigar burns. Red Leader loves to make ashtrays of his prisoners.

Patryck knows too much about burns, too. In the dim moonlight, it’s too dark to really see, but Paul knows well the decades-old scars that crawl across Patryck’s right arm and clavicle.

But this is what Paul wanted, isn’t it? What he deserves.

He reaches down and plucks twice.


	3. The Part Where The Dicks Come Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: The Part Where Paul Gets Treated Like Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sister asked me to include a flashback where Paul remembers his dad going out to buy cigs and never coming back. 
> 
> I'm not going back to chp2 and editing that in, but imagine that I did. 
> 
> Also holy crap this took waaaaay more editing than it should have and doesn't even include everything I initially wrote and planned for it. I don't even know if I've written smut or just a sex scene. But it's fine. If I keep editing this thing I'm gonna mcfreaking lose it. This story's well exceeded its initial purpose, anyway, so I'm happy overall.
> 
> Warnings for: discussion of suicidal thoughts, mention of past drug abuse, like one line of cock and ball torture. It’s National Treat Paul Like Trash Day

Patryck frees his half-hard cock as Paul sinks to his knees, smiling through a cloud of smoke. “Take off your shirt,” he orders, which Paul quickly obeys, tossing it off into the dirt.

Paul squeezes Pat’s thighs, but his smile suddenly softens. “Do you think we should get the phone, though?” He asks, which brings a flash of darkness to Patryck’s face. “Just in case.”

“Let me worry about that,” Pat replies, gently pushing Paul away so he can slide down the door, settling on the ground with the other man between his legs. “Come here,” he whispers, and Paul again obeys, even as Pat digs the cig into his skin, smothering Paul's hisses and gasps in a kiss until a row of five pink circles are emblazoned across his shoulder blades.  Paul's nails dig into Patryck's back, but forces himself still.

Patryck, by contrast, sighs into Paul's mouth, kissing him with a paradoxical tenderness. The only clear thought from the nebulous haze buzzing in his blood is how much he’s missed this feeling, Paul’s heated flesh against his. It used to be overwhelming to have anyone touch him at all, even the softest hug an assault. But now, either by force of his shifted blood or his own exposure therapy, it’s ...a lot better. Calming.

Well, only when it’s done by three specific people, but that's still a vast improvement. As Patryck pulls Paul closer, the weight of that nearly-barrel chest crushing, he’s reminded of the stressful days where he’d flop down on their over-sized bed and motion Paul onto him, until the nights became an endless stretch of paperwork and worrying and slight caffeine overdoses.

Yes, they used to simply lie together, until Tord would inevitably cut in and force Paul onto his back so that he and Pat would have to then fit themselves against Paul’s sides.

Patryck pulls out of the kiss and nuzzles against the unmarred side of Paul’s neck, breathing in the other pilot’s skin, even as he whimpers. The edges of his new wounds shriek at the ghosts of Pat’s touch.

The sound echos in Pat's chest, but a pang of worry does, too -- they haven’t had time for any intense scenes in a few weeks. Patryck starts to ask for Paul’s color when Paul hooks his fingers under Pat’s knees, guiding him forward until their hips are flush and tripping the words on Pat’s tongue. Smiling, Patryck reaches down and burns Paul at the base of his spine, thrums pleasantly as Paul’s hips snap forward.

He then tugs Paul’s head to the side and jabs the cig into his throat. “And one more for symmetry.”

Paul instinctively grabs Patryck’s wrist, but forces himself not to shove it away. The worst of the pain is only there for a split second, thankfully, before Patryck is pulling the cig away. The most he’ll leave on Paul is second degree, but even then, their healing factor can take care of it within a half an hour or so. Paul’s felt worse, for sure -- they both have.

So Patryck easily wiggles his wrist free of Paul’s grip and runs the knuckles over Paul’s reddening cheek. The veins in Paul’s neck are slowly relaxing from the pain, beads of sweat forming along his temples.

And, of course, the bulge Patryck can feel pressing into him, growing larger. “Color?”

“Green,” breathless and already desperate. Patryck grins and runs his thumb over the pink seam of Paul’s mouth, dropping a kiss onto his forehead.

“Good boy." Pat coasts his palm over all the new burns again, brushing the residue ash away. “You’re doing great. Ready?”

Paul nods, scooting down and propping himself on his elbows so he can give the head of Patryck’s cock a soft kiss, earning firm fingers threading through his hair.

Which means Patryck is going to fuck his throat.

Paul’s own cock stirs. No matter how many times it happens, it’s always more arousing -- and intimidating -- than it should be. Especially now that Patryck has tapped into that reserve of cruelty he saves for only special occasions.  

Well, cruelty and kindness. But they’re both so unlike him during a scene that it leaves Paul feeling like he’s come home to all his furniture moved a few centimeters to the left.

A question bubbles up his throat, but he swallows it as he opens his mouth wide. If Patryck is mad at him, it’s better to allow him to vent this way than bottle it up, especially if the Forest is hungering. The panic swirling between his ribs is also enough to draw him out of it, but he forces himself to kiss Patryck again, tongue darting out to taste the precum already pearling on the tip. He takes the head into his mouth, curls his tongue at the spot Patryck loves most, and feels Patryck’s groan reverberate through his bones.

Besides, Patryck’s only abstained from aftercare when he himself was dropping, too; it’ll be fine.

It’ll be fine.

With a deep breath, Paul glides along the topside of Patryck’s dick, feeling another hot pang of arousal shoot through his stomach at Pat’s soft gasp. Paul licks around to Patryck’s balls before gently sucking on the loose skin, careful not to earn himself another burn so quickly. His reward is a sigh of encouragement, but one Paul doesn’t get to follow up on before Patryck’s tugging him off by the hair. Paul lets his mouth fall open again, making sure to loll his tongue out the way both Patryck and Tord like it.

The look in Patryck’s eyes is frightening.

Predatory, dark, and hungry.

(for something beyond sex, they both know, though Paul would never dare ask)

Paul feels gooseflesh raise over his arms as his stomach flips, and Patryck's crooked smile widens, cigarette hanging off his lip, fingers tightening in Paul’s hair until he winces in pain.

(And Paul can feel something vibrating down the line, as if to say, _See? This is why I love him_.)

Patryck shoves his head down, holding Paul at the base of his cock until the other pilot’s throat relaxes. Paul breathes heavily through his nose, hands digging into Patryck’s hips so he doesn’t throw himself off with his own choking.

Patryck’s head cants back, staring up at the dinner plate moon high above them.

“I’ve missed having you all to myself,” he muses, tugging Paul almost off completely before letting his head drop again. He places the cig on the first of Paul’s thoracic vertebrae; an electric shock of pleasure slices through his gut as Paul pules. “You were mine first.”

Paul wants to point out that Patryck was Tord’s first, but there’s only so much talking you can do with a dick in your mouth. So he simply suckles and tries to hold himself still.

“Then again,” Patryck continues, moving the cigarette to the top of Paul’s shoulder, “I can’t really blame him for wanting a piece of you, too.” The delicious way Paul moans around him sends a tremor to his very core. Again Patryck yanks Paul off until only the head of his cock remains inside, taking a moment to appreciate the coolness of his wet flesh in the night air before driving back in. “You’re so _wonderful._ ”

A little noise from Paul. He’ll take it as a thank you.  

Patryck finds a part of him (the part that detaches as soon as skin starts flashing and impatiently watches him fuck from over its newspaper) reminded of one of Orwell's observations -- that life in a "civilized" society makes positive emotions as disgusting as negative ones. Gratitude as bad as ingratitude, kindness as hurtful as hate.

This certainly isn't civilized, however, by most accounts. 

Another burn, another thrust, another pathetic whimper.

A million cruel words claw at the back of Patryck’s throat, but no, he’s going to be nice to Paul tonight. Nice as he can be, even though he can already see the way the words churn in Paul’s chest.

Paul is asking him _(using him,_ rather) for permission, and he’ll get it, but that doesn’t mean Patryck is going to pour more water behind the dam. Not like Tord would, just to bask in how good he is at calming Paul down.

“Harder, pet?” Pat asks, to which Paul moans what sounds like an agreement. Paul moans louder, loving the spasm of muscles as Pat slams the back wall of his throat, the tight, grounding grip in his hair, the numbness in his lips that always comes when he blows one of his lovers.

God, Paul _loves_ to suck cock.

Paul’s hands bruise thighs as the smaller pilot sets a quick, brutal pace. Paul feels himself slipping as he tries to remain pliant, suckling and moaning as with every thrust.

The burns still sting, but his body is already going to work on repairing the damage, pain dissipating. He has to wonder, though (with what part of his brain is left to wonder) if the burns will heal enough by the time they have to head back, or if Tord is going to using his nails to connect the dots.

_(If this dinner doesn’t go well, he’ll be doing much more than)_

(shut up.)

Paul furrows his brows and starts moving of his own accord, as fast and as deep as he can until Patryck’s toes are curling and his voice climbing octaves.

“Yes, pet, you’re -- ah, fuck, _fuck._ ” Patryck can see the sheen of unshed tears on Paul's eyes as he watches himself disappear into that perfect mouth, and he has to remind himself to breathe. "Feels _amazing,_ Paul.”

Paul’s grip simply flexes on his jeans. He runs his hand harder over the shoulder burns, causing Paul to groan and arch away. When Paul tries to swallow him again, however, Patryck keeps him off, taking a moment to relish how Paul’s chest is heaving, his face a bright crimson.

“Green,” the hoarse word spills off his tongue. “I’m green.”

His lips already look bruised, Patryck notes happily, his eyes are already glazed over. Further still, a thin line of saliva still connects them, just visible in the light. 

Maybe saying "no" to recording themselves was a bad idea. 

Patryck takes another slow drag, his expression inscrutable. “Then get back to work.”

With those smoky, dismissive words, Pat forces his cock back into Paul's mouth, groaning at the overwhelming sensation. Paul shifts, throwing one arm onto Pat’s stomach for support as his other cups Patryck’s balls, gently massaging them with his thumb as he furiously bobs his head.

“Holy _shit.”_

Paul’s body is a knot being pulled tighter and tighter, drinking in the moaning and panting and growling as he stuffs Patryck’s cock down his throat.

Patryck’s breath hitches as Paul skims his teeth along the underside, and he hears himself talking senseless love.

_(Good boy, just like that)_

_(such a good slut, I’m close, don’t stop)_

_(wonderful, wonderful, wonderful)_

Patryck suddenly spills himself with a hiss, hand shooting down to claw its way up Paul’s flesh, from the burn at the bottom of his spine to the one at its top. Paul screams, but its muffled as he’s forced to swallow just so he doesn't choke. 

After a few moments, Patryck releases his hold, allowing Paul to pull back and sputter and cough. Paul can feel the blood weeping from his latest wound, but he fights down his instincts and swallows what remains in his mouth, pressing his mouth to the back of his thread-wrapped hand.

Finally, Patryck grinds the cigarette in the ground, leveling Paul with an impassive face. “Too much?”

Paul pauses, but eventually shakes his head. “Just give me a minute, please. Sir.” He’s breathing in the earthy scent of the thread, steeling the tears inside himself as his skin knits close. Half of him knows if he starts crying now, he isn’t going to stop, and the other half fears this Patryck will punish him for the weakness. His whole body hums electric, both from pain and from arousal, the lines blurred.

“Of course, darling,” Patryck says. “Take all the time you need. You’re doing great.” Paul sits back on his haunches, and Patryck shifts to follow him, gently pulling Paul’s hand away from his face and kissing him through the thread.

It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.

Patryck plucks it twice for him, ere he goes to cup Paul’s cheeks -- but Paul grabs his wrist and guides the hand down between his legs.  

Patryck smirks. Squeezes.

“Sir, _please,”_ Paul doesn’t even realize what he’s saying as the sensations crash over him, his body light as he’s washed away.

Patryck lets Paul hold him tight, rubbing small circles along the outline of his length. “Please what?” he whispers as Paul’s hip jerk forward. He plants a kiss on one the neck burns, which earns another buck into his hand. Paul is grinding against his fingers, his cock so hard it feels like a flesh-covered stone, throbbing in tune with his heartbeat.

(But there's something else, isn't there?)

“Use your words, pet.”

"Are you mad at me?”

Patryck blinks. "What?" Though, really, he should have seen this reaction coming. “No, no,” he coos into Paul’s neck, hand falling away. “No, of course I’m not mad at you."

_(specifically, anyway, but since you're here...)_

_Idiot_ , he doesn’t know why he thought Paul could hold out until the end of the scene. They haven’t done anything this harsh in --

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Patryck peppers kisses up Paul’s throat, along his jaw, until he takes Paul’s earlobe in between his teeth and nibbles. Paul gasps. “Now do you want me to put some of the water on you?” he whispers, by which he means water from Great Forest’s interior, able to heal roughly anything. “We have some in the first aid kit.”

“Later,” Paul replies, voice edged as he replaces Patryck’s hand over his bulge. “It _hurts_.”

Patryck nods in understanding and quickly frees Paul’s cock, eliciting a heavy sigh of relief. The head is swollen almost purple, veins enlarged as he leaks precum.

“Alright, pet,” Patryck gently commands, sitting back against the car again. “Come get in my lap. I’ll take care of you.” Paul quickly seats himself across Patryck’s legs, allowing the other pilot to cradle him in his arm.

Patryck reaches towards his cock, then hesitates. He leans to the side and drags the first aid kit towards them anyway. “Get out the gel.”

“But--”

Patryck’s hand starts to go for his throat, but Paul cringes away and obeys. “Sorry, Sir,” he says weakly.

He hands the slim vial to Patryck, who pours the flax-seed solution into his palm. Paul quirks his brow, gasping in cold shock as the wet hand encloses him. Paul can't help but thrust into Patryck's grip, waves of sensation breaking over him so violently his whole frame shakes.

But it's only a few moments before the Forest seeps into his skin, calming his nerves enough for him to enjoy Patryck’s ministrations.

“God, fuck, _Sir--_ ”

Patryck silences Paul with his mouth as he increases his pace, pumping so fast Paul feels the world narrow down to the feeling alone. The knot is so tight Paul can scarcely breathe, though that doesn’t stop him from moaning into the kiss, tilting his head to deepen it. Paul’s hands grab uselessly at Patryck’s hair, his chest, his still-exposed cock, trying to work him back to life despite the poor angle of his wrist. Patryck allows this; he draws Paul closer and thinks, briefly, of how reminiscent their posture is to the ole ‘dying in your lover’s arms’ money shot.

At least Paul seems to be enjoying it.

But the pain is coming back, under the surface. He can see it on his face.

“I’ll take care of you, dear,” Patryck whispers, Paul only whimpering at the loss.

Paul doesn’t even notice Patryck reaching for the box of cigarettes again; his eyes are pinched shut, only cracking open as Patryck stops to instead hold his length in place, thumb idly swiping over the head. Paul tries to thrust up again, but that only causes Patryck to unfurl his grip, eliciting a whine of protest. The repressed pain is starting to take up shelter in his stomach, forcing Paul to bite down on his tongue. 

Patryck simply places another cigarette between his lips and sparks the lighter.

Paul tugs gently on Patryck's cock, stares uncomprehendingly as Patryck puffs his stick and then holds it up for Paul's scrutiny, smoke curling off the end. “Think you can handle a little more, pet?”

 _“Please,_ Patryck –"

“What did you call me?” Patryck asks.

“Pat, _please.”_ His voice breaks, still trying pathetically to buck into Patryck’s hand, his whole body buzzing painfully for any kind of friction.

Patryck slams the tip of the cigarette onto the head of Paul’s cock.

Paul cums onto Pat’s hand with a broken sob, tears finally falling as the sensation rends him in half. The cigarette is gone almost soon as it makes contact. Patryck flicks it off to the side, wrapping his arms around quaking shoulders as Paul collapses against his chest. Light fingers in Paul's sweat-soaked hair, a dulcet cooing in his ear.

“You did wonderful, pet. I’m so proud of you,” as Pat grabs both their strings and plucks. Lord know what the hell Tord just felt come down that line.

“Patryck,” Paul’s voice is quivering, “oh, Patryck –”

“I’m right here, darling,” Patryck says. “I’m right here. You’re alright. I’m so proud of you.”

Paul keeps sobbing, so Patryck keeps murmuring praise and soothing noises, lips pressed to Paul’s hair.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ Paul says eventually, to which the answer is immediate:

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, love." _(except for having the freedom I could only dream, for both Tord and Tom clearly preferring you, for using me as your emotional bloodbank, same as he, so please, dear, be more specific.)_ “It’s alright. I’m here.”

But Paul simply hides his face against Pat’s chest. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

“No no darling, I promise, it's fine." It's the exact reaction he expected, after all. A pattern he's long since recognized from his own youth, when he’d waited until he was sure his parents were asleep to put on some music and quietly sing along until he can scarcely breathe for his sobbing. Patryck tilts his head down and kisses the now-stabbed burns along Paul’s neck. “It’s perfectly fine, darling,” he murmurs into his flesh.

  
Paul’s weeping temporarily lolls as he grumbles something deep in his throat, arms tightening around Patryck’s rib cage— _schatje,_  all Pat is able to make out.

And then it starts again.

Patryck's eye might have twitched. But his lips certainly travel up Paul’s jaw, up his face to his scar, tasting his tears. “I know, I know." A soft peck on Paul’s discolored eyelid. “Just let it out. I’m right here.”

* * *

When Paul is calm enough, Patryck hefts him up and manages to (his own private pride) hook his foot under the car handle, settling Paul on his stomach in the back seats. Paul opens the other door himself so his head and arms and dangle uselessly onto the weeds below. Hears the cap of the gel vial pop again as Patryck climbs atop him, straddling his hips. Shivers as Patryck’s wet hands glide over him, massaging the Forest into all his burns, leaning down to kiss them as the scabs vanish and reveal fresh, pink skin underneath.

A pleasant warmth settles in Paul’s bones, and he even giggles as Patryck’s lips tickle a certain spot on his neck.

God, how wonderful it feels, just to soak in his lover’s presence again. Patryck nuzzles his nose into the junction where throat becomes shoulder, drinking in the smell of him, hearty and pine and _his._ All his, even if he has to share.

But it’s not so bad as he makes it out to be. Not when they can still have nights like this.

And soon, if tonight goes well for their other lover and son, they’ll have thrones to fuck on, too.

Still…

Patryck lies down, ignoring the treacly fluid now coating his abdomen, and rests his chin on Paul’s shoulder. “We have to do something about Tom.”

Paul frowns, pulling the head off the dandelion his fingers had been worrying. “Yeah,” he says simply.

“And you’re going to have to do it,” Patryck continues. “Because if I try, he’ll just send me away.”

“Yeah,” another defeated sigh.

“So what are you planning to do?”

A long silence. Another handful of weeds ripped out of the ground, then watched with blank eyes as they tumble out of his grasp to the ground. “I don’t know. But I’ll think of something.”

“Better make it quick, because we’re running out of time.” _If we haven’t already,_ Patryck thinks, not for the first time. Every day and night he’s surprised to find Thomas still so happy to see them, still a human being, alive and well.

“I _know,”_ Paul says. “I know.”

Silence reigns.

Eventually, Paul breaks it with:

“And you know what you need to do?”

Patryck doesn’t.

“You need to ask for a vacation.” And to lock himself and Tord in a room until they can fuck their dynamic back to normal, but Paul’s smart enough to know the reaction he’d get to that.

“With the invasion coming up?” Patryck scoffs. “He’d never.”

“Well -- so what? After the invasion is better than never.” Though neither of them know how long that will last, never mind how long they’ll need to rebuild the country’s infrastructure and settle the people under their rule. Could be months, years, even.

But what does that matter, when you’re going to be immortal?

“I’m sure Tord would let you go away for a weekend if you really wanted." Paul cocks his head, looking into Pat's eyes. “We both can see how unhappy you are. Maybe that’s something you could do for Tom." His own eyes widen, smile stretching his face. "Ask Tord if you can take him to a concert or something, and stay overnight! It’d be perfect.”

Patryck looks away, and Paul can practically hear the little hamsters in his brain running their marathons. “Perhaps.”

“You should. I’m sure he’d be okay with it.” It’s not like either of them can disappear on him, after all. “Tord does love you, Pat.”

He says, like it should be obvious. But Patryck simply rolls his eyes and rests his cheek on Paul’s shoulder. This argument is so old and worn their own jokes calling it out have gotten stale.

So silence unfurls again.

Paul goes back to picking flowers.

“Can I ask you something?” He asks finally, voice quiet and low. “And you’ll promise you won’t freak out?”

Oh, lord. “Of course, darling.” Patryck raises his head, braces for --

  
“Sometimes I think I should kill myself.” A hoarse murmur, a twirl of the dandelion around his thread-bound finger. “For all the horrible things that I’ve done.”

A pause.

  
“I think about that sometimes,” is Pat’s reply, smoothing his fingers again through Paul’s hair. “But then I think about how a better punishment is to continue to beat myself up for it and be miserable the rest of my life, because I’m too much of a stubborn coward to apologize.”

  
“And I think: do I even _want_ to do it to make things right, or do I want to force the people I’ve hurt to feel sorry for me?” Paul digs his thumbnail in until the dandelion’s head falls off,  already regretting turning the focus back onto himself, already feeling the sinking implications of Patryck’s words. Not miserable few months of stress wearing me down to the marrow, miserable _life._   

And Paul knows a few things about trying to fake it for the kids. 

 _I_ _’m sorry, I want to make you happy,_ he should say, but his mouth is five steps behind, so instead all that comes out is, “I don’t know the answer anymore.”

  
Well, yeah, you probably do — and at least some part of Paul knows it, Patryck can reasonably surmise.

(And later Paul will remember what Patryck says when asked if he's going to tell Tord: _If you were serious, you would have just done it.)_

(Yes, he'll remember those words a lot.)

Paul clears his throat, finally forcing out, “I’m sorry I don’t make you happy.”

“Oh, Paulie,” Patryck sighs, feeling both concern and an undeniable fatigue. “You do. It’s not you at all. It’s--”

“Him?”

Patryck bites his lip. “Only partially. I'd already thoroughly fucked my life up before I ever met him; he just made it so I couldn't go back. Not that I would have tried, honestly. And I felt so hopeless, that..." A sigh. "He probably saved my life."

Did, if we're being truly honest. There are only a few ways the junkie narrative can end when you have nothing left worth recovering for.

"Did I just hear Pat not blame Tord for something?" Paul asks, a small, forced smile creeping over his face. "Am I dreaming?"  
  
"I dunno. Are you?" " Patryck pinches his side, not too roughly, and Paul gives a giggly squeal. Paul nearly bucks Patryck off when he pinches again, but the smaller man holds on tight. "Besides, we're both damned anyway, so you don't need to worry about atonement."

  
A chuckle. “Sure about that?” After all, to be free of all your cares and insecurities one day definitely sounds like a blessing. The magic powers are just a little extra to sweeten the pot.

  
At the cost of that thing beating in your chest, the thing that’s crawling with ants as you wrap your arms around his neck and snuggle closer, stubble and sweat from his cheek against yours. 

  
Patryck’s answer is a simple, “Yes.”

And then the phone rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patryck is referring to the lines, "One of the effects of safe and civilized life is an immense oversensitiveness which makes all the primary emotions seem somewhat disgusting. Generosity is as painful as meanness, gratitude as hateful as ingratitude," from George Orwell's [ Looking Back on the Spanish War.](http://orwell.ru/library/essays/Spanish_War/english/esw_1)
> 
>  _Schatje_ is also the Dutch word for darling/sweetheart/etc.
> 
> A little disclaimer: From my own experience, people who openly talk of suicide are more often looking for help (which is where Patryck is coming from). I don't endorse ignoring these admissions, however, and I'm not trying to minimize anyone's suffering just because they decided to open up about it. That's just, like, his opinion. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> I reply to comments, so feel free to ask for clarification if you need it. Or you can come ask about this AU at my tumblr, [the-resurrection-3D](https://the-resurrection-3d.tumblr.com/) Will I even post the actual main story? Who knows anymore.


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